


i. no true knight.

by swoledor_clegainz



Series: arsan drabbles [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scenes, pre-romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swoledor_clegainz/pseuds/swoledor_clegainz
Summary: After a long day chasing cats, Arya finds herself squarely lost. Trouble arises, and help comes from the most unlikely of sources.Oneshot, first in a drabble series.





	i. no true knight.

**Author's Note:**

> Set before King Robert's death and Ned's fall from grace.

**i. no true knight.**  

 

Little ladies were not supposed chase tomcats through city sewers.

Little ladies were not supposed to swear, either.

Yet Arya Stark did so anyway, cursing the gods and whatever stuffy, ancient architect had decided that King’s Landing was to be an endless, winding, inescapable labyrinth of doom. The mangy old tomcat had led her beneath the city itself, into the deepest, dankest parts of the underground. Arya, in her determination to catch the wretched creature, had not realized how far she had gone until it was too late.

Night had long since fallen, and with it a chill upon the ocean breeze. The winding cobble road, freshly drenched from the afternoon storm, shimmered in the moonlight. The city, so lively in the day, now seemed quite deserted; only the heady stench remained, lingering stubbornly in the air.

As she clutched herself, shivering, her small footsteps echoed ominously between the high, silent buildings with their darkened windows – reminding her of just how lost she truly was. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Syrio Forel had told her. Even now she fought the panic rising in her throat, looking around for some landmark she recognized, some _one_ or some _thing,_ anything, to help her. Surely, her father’s men would be out looking for her, and maybe even the goldcloaks. After all, she had been gone since before the early noon hours. Yet as she plodded on, she crossed paths with no one but her own shadow, stretching tall across the street, her only companion save the lonely moon.

Her heart lifted when she turned the corner, her eyes falling upon a tavern, lit merrily in the darkness. Orange light spilled onto the pavement from its many windows, the smell of a fire luring her closer. It was the only sign of life on the street – and so, she approached.

Inside, it was warm and inviting, especially so compared to the cold wet of the city outside that seemed to soak through to her bones. Fires roared bright in hearths on each wall, cheeses and meats and other bundles hanging from the high ceiling between the iron wall sconces. Scores of empty, upholstered chairs and oak tables were packed on a dais to her right, and in front of her was the square counter behind which three large barrels and taps sat upon wooden stands.

The patrons here were sparse; her eyes were initially drawn to the corner booth. There in the shadows loomed the largest man she had ever seen, his hairy arms folded against his chest and his boots up on the table beside a half-empty flagon of wine. He wore a hooded cloak, shadowing the upper part of his face, so that only a set of handsome, dark whiskers were visible. The way his broad chest rose and fell, he appeared to be fast asleep. His size unnerved her, so she turned away, looking elsewhere.

There at the counter sat four men, the only others in the tavern besides the lazy barkeep. They talked merrily amongst themselves, carrying shields and swords at their hips. Knights, perhaps, she thought with a start. Father had always said that knights were there to serve, and she had always known Uncle Rodrik to lend a helping hand to anyone in distress, no matter the cause. Perhaps these men would do the same. Arya marched forward.

“Sers,” she ventured, begging their attention. “Could you tell me how to get to the Red Keep?”

One of the men, scraggly-haired and reeking of ale, turned to regard her over his shoulder with one bloodshot eye. “Looky here,” he croaked. “A little mousey, lost and all on her own.”

Arya repeated her request. “I…need to get to the Red Keep. Can you help me?”

“Aye,” the man cooed, staggering to his feet. He was dressed in an ill-fitting surcoat of piss yellow, faded and drawn. The smell of ale invaded her nostrils, making her eyes water. “We can help you well enough, can’t we, boys?” Two of them chuckled, turning from the counter to eye her with interest.

It was now alarmingly apparent that none of these men were knights, as she’d first believed. Ser Rodrik would never have dressed like this, in tattered leather jerkins and patched, stained breeches, nor would he have kept his weapons in so unorderly a fashion. And he certainly would never drown himself in drink like these lot had. Beady, hungry eyes stared down at her as if she weren’t a girl at all, but a peach, ripe for the taking.

She wished desperately that Ser Rodrik were here, and Jory, and Fat Tom, and Alebelly and Alyn.

“Now _there’s_ the ugliest wench I ever saw,” One of the men whistled and palmed his cock through his breeches. “Fancy a ride, girl?” The others laughed, drinks sloshing to the floor.

“Please,” Arya took a step back, clutching the hilt of her wooden sword. “I need to get home to my father.”

“It’s alright, love, I can be your daddy – ” The yellow man’s hand closed around her tiny wrist, yanking. She wrenched free, staggering back and opening her mouth to protest, but she ran smack into a living wall.

A large, heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, startling her and making the men stop in their tracks, looking up in apprehension.

“ _There_ you are, sweetling,” came a voice, low and rough in her ear. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The stranger from the corner booth had risen, it seemed, and come to stand close behind her. He towered above them all, over seven foot, his face still shadowed by the navy hooded cloak he wore about his broad shoulders. 

“Oi, biggun,” one of the younger men drawled. “Come to have a go at her too? There’s room for all of us in that tight little cunny,”

“Sorry lad,” said the stranger. The hand on her shoulder squeezed, and she realized he meant for her to play along. “I don’t share.”

“And who the fuck might you be, smartass?”

Beneath his hood, the stranger smiled. “A passing traveler.”

The yellow man drew his blade with the sound of leather on metal, pointing it squarely at the stranger’s chest. “How’s about you pass your way on out of here, then, and fuck off to wherever you come from.”

The stranger pulled her flush against him, and there was silence save the crackle of the hearths. The tension was palpable. 

Furrowing his brow in indignation, the yellow man turned his gaze to Arya, leaning down close, so that she could smell the ale on his putrid breath. “Why don’t you come with us, girl?” He cooed, fingering his blade. “Does the big, scary man frighten you, love? We’ll keep you safe…”

“No,” said the stranger. “I expect she just doesn’t like yer ugly fuckin’ mug.”

“Right! _That’s it_ \- ” The yellow man snarled angrily, raising his sword.

Then all at once there was a flash of silver, a sickening _thunk,_ and a high-pitched cry of pain. The sword clattered to the floor with a great clamor. Arya had not even seen the stranger draw his dirk – yet there it was, sprouting from the counter like a stubborn weed, driven straight through the top of the yellow man’s wrist. He let loose a wail, clutching pitifully at his hand.

“ _You’ll pay for that!_ ” There was the screeching of wood on stone as the others scurried to their feet, sheaths ringing as they drew their swords.

It all happened so quickly that Arya scarcely had time to react. The stranger shoved her behind his back to safety as the men lunged at him, overturning tables, and yanked his swordbelt free in one fluid motion. Leaning away coolly and dodging the brunt of the blow, he caught the first sword strike with his own, still in its brown leather sheath. Parrying it away with ease, the stranger smirked beneath his hood as the shortsword spun in his practiced hands. With a short, hard jab, the pommel caught the green boy square in the face, fracturing his nose and sending him to the floor, sprawled and bleeding. With a flourish, he returned to his stance, holding the sheath to his hip and stepping slowly in a circle, his shoulders hunched in anticipation.

The second man, wild in the eyes, gave a battle cry and charged, holding his weapon above his head. The stranger met him mid swing, still not bothering to draw his own sword, blocking the blow almost lazily with his scabbard. He parried easily once, twice, three times, as one might play a game of shuttlecock on the lawn. _He toys with them,_ Arya thought. _As if he enjoys it._ As she watched, the stranger thrust forward and caught the hilt of the other’s blade, jerking up and sending the sword spinning into the air. As the stranger caught it, (“I’ll be takin’ that.”) he jabbed and plunged it one-handed into its owner’s shoulder, sending the rotund man staggering back into the wall, cursing and bleeding. A third man thought to take him from behind, knife in hand; in a flurry of motion and the billowing of his cloak, the stranger had him pinned to the floor, his large knee digging into the man’s back and hiking his arm up as he screamed. With a crack, the arm was broken.

The second man had recovered, struggling to yank his own sword from where it was lodged in his shoulder, and advanced on the crouched stranger once again with a bloodcurdling cry. 

“Behind!” Arya screamed, yet there was no need; in a flash of steel the stranger’s sword was finally drawn, and the man seemed to stop his tracks, weapon held aloft. Seconds later, he collapsed to the ground, choking upon his life’s blood.

With a flourish of his bloody blade, the stranger stood tall and replaced it within its sheath. Stepping over the body, he reached over and plucked his dirk from the yellow man’s wrist with the sickening sound of ripping flesh, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

“Ye’ll be wanting to see to that quickly, lad,” said the stranger, standing over the green boy with the broken nose. “He’ll bleed out in minutes.”

Arya’s heart pounded from where she crouched behind an overturned table. He turned to her, jerking his head beneath his hood and motioned for her to follow him outside. She obeyed, struggling to her feet.

“Apologies for the mess,” he called over his shoulder, flipping a coin to the barkeep, who had been frozen in fear the entirety of the ordeal. From the ground, the men left alive groaned pitifully.

When they were safely outside, Arya finally dared to exhale. “Thank you, Ser,” she breathed.

The man turned, raising his hands to lower his hood. “I’m no Ser.”

Arya’s eyes widened in shock, and she quickly backed away. “It’s _you!_ ”

Standing before her, crossing his huge mutton-chop arms, was the Hound – the great, big, hairy monster that had killed Mycah at the crossroads. His brown eyes glittered like coal in the night, his mane of wavy hair tied back into a hare’s tail. The infamous scar, however, was what commanded her attention (and, likely, all who ever looked upon him): the worst of the burn was twisted and ridged, pink and red all over, spiraling up his forehead and into his hair, reaching out in spidery tendrils towards his dark, bushy beard. The lazy brow hung low and pocked over his eye, giving him a garish, almost mocking look. Arya stared back him defiantly, determined not to reveal any unease at his deformity.

“Aye, it’s me. Don’t get yer knickers in a twist.” He held out a large hand, motioning. “Come along with me now, wolf girl. I’ll get yet back to yer den.”

“I’m not going anywhere with _you._ ” Arya spat.

“Going to find yer way back on yer own, then? Worked out well for ye the first time.” He stepped forward. “Don’t be daft girl, come _along._ ”

“No.” she folded her arms in defiance, jutting her chin out.

The Hound bit his lip, an impish grin playing beneath his whiskers as he stared down at her, and she at him.

And then, with the speed and agility of a man half his size, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder like a half-empty sack as she let out a sharp yelp of surprise.

“Let – _unh –_ go of me!” she screamed, kicking her legs violently and pounding his shoulder with her tiny fists. “You let go of me _right now,_ you – you _bastard –_ ”

“Pipe down, little wolf,” he yawned loudly, starting up the hill. “Or I’ll cuff ye one.”

“You _brute!_ ” she continued to struggle, but it was no use; he was as much muscle as he was height.

“Believe me girl, I’m not happy about this either. I’d be sleepin’ like a sucklin’ babe, warm by the fire if ye hadn’t come along, yappin’ for yer daddy and almost getting’ yerself raped by a posy of Porters.”

“I could have handled that _myself!_ ” she hissed from her perch on his shoulder.

“Aye, I could see as much.” He adjusted her roughly, making her squeak. “I suppose ye’d have gelded them with that little bit of wood on yer hip?”

“If I had my sword – ”

The Hound let loose a bark of laughter, staggering slightly. “ _If_ ye had yer sword! Ifs and onlys are what get a man stabbed to death in some dark alleyway.”

“You’re drunk,”

“Oh aye, I’m drunk. I’m always drunk.” He let out a great belch, as if to reassure that fact. _Disgusting brute._ “Helps me deal with loud, whingy little highborns and ladies like yerself.”

Arya folded her arms and huffed derisively, glaring as the ground swayed rhythmically beneath her. “I’m _not_ a lady.”

“And I’m not a Ser. You’d best remember that before I roll ye in me cloak and toss ye in the Blackwater.”

He whistled as he walked, strolling casually through the twists and turns of the cobble streets as if it were second nature. She soon recognized the even white stone that meant they were ascending Aegon’s High Hill. In minutes, they stood before the looming portcullis of the castle itself.

“Halt, citizen!” A goldcloak, holding a torch aloft, called down to them. “Who would enter the Red Keep?”

“The Hound, Boris, you know me.”

“At this hour? Daft, man.” Boris the Goldcloak squinted. “And gods be fuckin’ good, what’s that on your shoulder?”

“The Lord Hand’s youngest daughter,” The Hound wrapped his arms around her middle and hefted her up, setting her on the ground. “I expect he’d be pleased to have her back.”

“Aye, I suppose he might. Open the gates!”

With a great metallic clamor, the portcullis rumbled to life, granting entrance.

Arya glared back at the Hound as she shuffled forward.

“My _lady,_ ” With a lofty wave and sweep of his hand, he sunk into an exaggerated bow and winked up at her.


End file.
